


the age of water

by scribblingTiresias



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I, Soulsborne - Fandom
Genre: (but micolash is a gloriously gleeful mess 24/7/365), (except micolash), Age of Water, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Blood and Violence, Crossover, Existentialism, Fire, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Madness, Other, Reincarnation, Suicidal Thoughts, The usual Soulsborne trigger set in other words, in which everyone is sad and searching for things they have lost, soulsborne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-12 16:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12963654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblingTiresias/pseuds/scribblingTiresias
Summary: The world changes, but sometimes things remain.Some bright souls survived the Deluge, where the Age of Water buried the old world. Reborn, they remember.





	1. the first vicar of flame

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to tumblr user tindalosMalakia for the idea that Bloodborne is Aldrich's foretold Age of Water.

The thing that Laurence remembers is _fire_.

It's an ache inside him, something he cannot fill- there are embers in his soul where there used to be a flame. It was part of him, a part he gave away, and it flickered out and died. Now all that's left is darkness.

His vague memories of whatever came before-- a swamp, a great clearing, an axe in his hand, a crushing disappointment-- are too hazy to be of any use. He meditates upon them, studies them in his mind, catching himself in their snare over and over, like a finger-trap from a foreign land.

He seeks the flame.

It's what drives him to Byrgenwerth, to the catacombs, to the great discovery of the Old Blood. Laurence prays every time that the knowledge will light the spark, that he'll burn bright once more. But he Healing Blood cannot cure the ache. The forbidden knowledge is deep as water, but like water, it cannot light a spark.

It isn't until after his transformation, until after he's trapped in a nightmare of his own creation, a cursed Cleric Beast, that he finds the flame again. But the fire does not fill him; it consumes him.

The First Vicar screams in the nightmare, not just from the pain of the fire or the madness of the Beast Blood, but for what's lost that he cannot find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [11/12] This chapter was kind of the proof-of-concept for the fic. I don't beta my fanfiction because I'm a pro writer and prefer not to take my fannish writing seriously (if I took every bit of fanfic as seriously as I took my pro writing, you would never see any of it). So I tend to just give it a once-over edit and then throw it into the world. 
> 
> As such it wound up a little shorter than the later chapters, and I'm planning to give it a proper edit/enlengthening once I've gotten... eh, maybe to the halfway point? Before the end, because Laurence is important to characters who will be in the spotlight later, but not so recently that I run out of steam on writing because I *hate* editing. 
> 
> Also, Laurentius is one of my faves. I like him better than Solaire. That might be obvious later.


	2. fire keeper of the astral clocktower

The thing Maria remembers is voicelessness.  
  
Her tongue cut out, her legs mangled, her mind shattered so she wished not to speak, wished not to be, wished only to give her soul to the flame and keep the seething humanity beneath her skin contained. Death, merciful, even if pain came before - and then rebirth, unwilling and agonizing; though her body was whole, her mind could never be again.  
  
She swears, from the moment the memories hit her, she will never let herself be that girl again. She will never let anyone hurt her again. She'd rather die.  
  
She'd rather kill.  
  
Lady Maria becomes a hunter. It's the best way to protect yourself- tie off your leg, wear your coat and scarf, don't let the blood touch your skin, and you'll survive the night. She trains with the rakuyo day and night, avoiding the blood blades of her kin. The curse of her ancestors, the blood hunger- it reminds her of the pulsing humanity.  
  
She wants her mind intact; she wants her soul intact. She hones them, and her body, until she's a weapon, razor-edged.  
  
And those around her know it. She has companions, comrades; few friends, and no lovers. She rejects Gehrman's clumsy flirtations, Eileen's brusque overture, Djura's awkward attempts at friendship.  
  
Friends, family- at best, a harmless distraction; at worst, a threat. Those who'd loved her, in the hazy green memories of her past, had done nothing to stop those who'd turned her to a servant of the flame.  
  
It isn't until the massacre at the fishing hamlet that she realises what she's done. She sees a young girl- warped by the nightmare that was Kos, eyes cut out, legs mangled. Something pulsing beneath the skin.  
  
She throws up in the village well. When her breathing calms, and the revulsion clouding her mind fades, she throws her rakuyo in. She watches it fall, listens to the echoes as it drops.  
  
When she walks away, it's with a new oath: to heal the sick, to mend the broken, to give voice to the voiceless. She will never hurt anyone the way she has been hurt. She will never  _allow_ anyone to be hurt the way she has been hurt. 

Never again. Not in this world, not in any other.


	3. host of forbidden knowledge

The thing Micolash remembers is _certainty_.  
  
When he tries to describe it to others, they call it 'madness'. In his more lucid moments, he has to admit that that's what it is-- the extreme faith he remembers, knowing something is true so much that even if it's patently false, you've made it true with the force of your belief, that is not sane.  
  
But Micolash _knows_ , in that blind certain way, that he was meant to be immortal, that the human body he's caged in is an illusion, that he's meant to be a creature of rock-hard scales and immense scale. He _knows_ that the cosmos is vast and there are things in it that no one has seen, and that to study them means to be granted eyes.  
  
Eyes are Insight. Insight is certainty, is madness. Madness, knowledge, and the love of Kos-- for all Great Ones are sympathetic to feeble, fumbling Man-- will give him what he seeks. He's certain of it.  
  
He came to Byrgenwerth for much the same reasons Laurence did; to reclaim what was once his. The vast stores of knowledge, kept in a dizzying library; the insight into the nature of the universe he once had that let him construct rains of Soul Arrows and vast crystal spires; the long hours of toil deep into the night, carving apart weaker beings and transforming them into something greater- he wants it all.  
  
But it's not enough. The scholars of Byrgenwerth won't go far enough; won't travel deep enough. He craves more.  
  
Blind certainty is an addiction, as gnawing as blood ministration, as burning as hunger for the flesh. The deeper he dives into the secrets of the cosmos, the more he wants to know.  
  
He wants to be cleansed of his beastly idiocy, and he'd try _anything_ to do it- to catch that certainty in the claws he knows he ought to have. When he puts the Mensis Cage on his head for the first time, it's electric.  
  
The secrets, rushing through his mind - the chats he can have with the Great Ones- the knowledge, greater than blind mad faith- it's more than he could have ever dreamed of. He's never taking the cage off, he vows it.  
  
In time, he constructs a nightmare realm for himself at the edge of the great frontier- the nightmare of Mensis. It's a holding ground for the One Reborn and for the great artefacts Mensis has found, nothing more-- but in time, in time, it will be so much more than that. He will build a library vaster than any in his memory; he will build a crystal spire to the heavens that makes the Choir's cathedral look puny.  
  
He will become greater than a god, greater than the Great Ones themselves- become an everlasting dragon.  
  
All that remains is to beckon the moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is an insult to compare ANYONE to Seath, but when I was thinking over Micolash, the only 'good fits' seemed to be tied to sorcery in some way. And Micolash is the embodiment of 'go big or go home', so...


	4. the moonlit knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: SUICIDAL THOUGHTS. If you are triggered by suicidal ideation, this is your cue to skip this chapter.

The thing Ludwig remembers is moonlight.  
  
Then, as now, he prays beneath the light of the moon that all will be spared, that he will save his people. Then, as now, it's an angry red, tainted by the corruption around him.  
  
And then, as now, he's too like the moonlight. They said -- both in his old life and his new one-- that he was incorruptible, that he had nary a shred of dark about him. His men and women were honourable, noble spartans; Ludwig himself was a shining crusader, a credit to the Church, a credit to Yharnam.  
  
But moonlight is mingled light and darkness, the light reflected from something greater, the darkness enshrouding. Everything he's done is an echo of someone greater; someone he's dedicated his life to following.  
  
From his life before, he has dim memories-- a great Lord, mighty of arm, with a long beard and a jagged crown; here, it's the First Hunter, cunning and bold, with his peg leg and jagged scythe. He admires Gehrman, even though, on the rare occasions they've met, he suspects Gehrman dislikes him. Ludwig tries to emulate him, watching from a distance.  
  
A hunter cannot hunt alone. He rallies the people of Yharnam, and helps them to fend off the beasts on each night of the Hunt. He wants people to know what danger they're in, and how best to combat it; his sense of right demands no less.  
  
It's his sense of right that keeps him moving. His sense of right, his willingness to do the unthinkable, and his love- for his Spartans, for the people of Yharnam- all drive him forward, night of the Hunt after night of the Hunt. He is pure of heart, he is pure of mind; he knows he can prevail.  
  
It's his sense of right that proves to be his undoing. He can't bear the strain of sending people to their death, night after night; he's watched too many of his Spartans die, and watched Gehrman fade away into some foul dream. He's teetering on the edge of sanity, and he knows it.  
  
He travels into the Chalice Dungeons, one night, seeking guidance, seeking Insight. _How do I protect those I care for?_ He's reminded of the cold, crushing darkness he once found in an endless Abyss.  
  
Then he finds it- the moonlight, brighter than the sun, reflected off a Blade. It's lying atop a pile of corpses in armour, and it beckons him, sure as a gleaming coin beckons a beast. When he picks it up, it whispers to him. He sees small glowing figures around it- most of them are shaped like humans, though most of them have strange buggy eyes and mouths shaped wrong, slits running vertically up their face. Their arms are too long, with too many joints.  
  
<<You are small and weak>>, they murmur to him. He doesn't hear their words as much as feel them, buzzing in the back of his mind. <<But you are brave.>>  
One figure reaches out to touch his face. It's cold, and it tingles when it touches his skin.  
  
<<We like you.>>  
  
His lips curve into a smile.  
  
Ludwig takes the Moonlight Blade with him when he leaves the Dungeon. He might not have found the answers he's seeking, but he's found something better - a friend.  
  
(He's reminded, for some reason, of a great gray wolf, always at his side.)  
  
In the long, dark nights, between Hunts, he speaks to it while he's on vigil. He asks it questions. It seems strange, communing with the cosmos through a weapon, but he becomes used to it quickly.  
  
One night, the Hunter's Vigil has worn him down to the point he can barely keep his eyes open. He's exhausted. More than that, he's miserable. He lost one of his best women in the field the night before to a beast with horns that curled like a ram's. Worse, after he'd slain the brute, he'd found a locket dangling from its corpse. The locket had belonged to a friend of his- the Vicar of Byrgen Chapel.  
  
He's aching inside and out. There's a part of him that wants to throw himself off a roof- his corpse will fall into Old Yharnam for the beasts to eat. But a larger part just wants a reason- something to rekindle the old fire, something to keep him from falling into despair.  
  
"What is the meaning of life?" he asks the Blade.  
  
<<We don't understand,>> it says.  
  
He thinks for a second.  
  
"Life. The Hunt. The Cosmos," he says. "What's the purpose of it? Why do we exist?"  
  
The glowing shapes whisper to each other. He can't understand what they're saying. Finally, the Blade speaks again.  
  
<<There is no purpose. The Cosmos does not exist for humans or Great Ones,>> it says. <<The universe is vast and indifferent.>>  
  
"So why go on?" he asks, before he can stop himself. "Why do we live?"  
  
<<You live because you live.>>  
  
"I don't understand." He breathes out, slowly.  
  
<<We don't understand,>> the Blade says again. <<Your question has no meaning.>>  
  
"I... Life ought to have... something great behind it. Some higher meaning. Oughtn't it?" he asks. "Before I started the Hunt, I thought the purpose of life was... to help people. To save souls."  
  
<<That is a strange way to speak of it,>> the Blade says. Its 'voice' feels more like a tingle than a buzz.  
  
"...It felt right."  
  
<<Most of your kind do not know that souls exist,>> the Blade says. <<They're extinguished in the water of the Cosmos. All that remains is an echo in the blood.>>  
  
"Well... I didn't know, either." Ludwig rubs the back of his neck.  
  
In a clearer state of mind, he would have realised what a discovery this was; he would have rushed to find a Choirboy and told them the news. But it barely registers in his mind through the miasma of misery.  
  
"You know what I mean, though," he says. "I thought there was something grand and important to do. But... I can't believe that anymore, friend."  
  
He sighs.  
  
"...I want my life, my death... I want it to mean something. But the longer we go on, my Spartans and I... life is cheap. Death is pointless."  
  
<<It is. You must create your own significance.>>  
  
"How?" Ludwig has the sneaking suspicion the Blade is mocking him, though he isn't sure why. It's hard to tell, when one's talking to something with no face.  
  
<<By your courage,>> it says. <<The courage of your deeds, and... the courage of your questions.>>  
  
Ludwig looks out, over the horizon. The roofs of Yharnam almost look peaceful in the dim light. Smoke rises from their chimneys, obscuring the moon.  
  
<<You are not alone in this,>> the Blade says. It sounds more serious now; its handle slides along the bench, of its own accord, lightly tapping his knee. <<Most beings struggle. Meaninglessness is... difficult to comprehend.>>  
  
Ludwig's brow furrows. He's never been a deep thinker; what the Blade says rings true. He puts his hand on the handle.  
  
"It is," he says.  
  
<<You are made of the same stuff as the Cosmos. In a sense, one could say that you are the Cosmos' child. Water, blood, fire, iron... it is your inheritance.>>  
  
The Blade glows, projecting stars against Yharnam's clouded sky.  
  
<<It is how you use that inheritance that matters. And Holy Knight, you use it well. ...You have given your life meaning, because you give others hope. I have seen it. Others have seen it as well.>>  
  
"Thank you."  
  
In the moment, it's comfort- cold comfort, but enough to quiet his mind. For someone else, it might even have been the foundation they could build something new on. But Ludwig cannot be satisfied with so little faith. He's a Holy Knight for a reason; he needs a purpose, a reason to be. The Cosmos itself, the object of his devotion, does not care about him. It's enough to nudge his already shaky sanity to a brink he cannot escape.   
  
It's that night that Ludwig's sense of right begins to erode; it's that night that Ludwig's transformation begins.  
  
It's not dramatic, at first. A patch of itchy skin at his collarbone that he can't scratch; a sharper temper. The despair still nags at the back of his mind, day after night, night after day. The itch, the despair, the temper won't go away, no matter how much blood he consumes, no matter how many transfusions he recieves.  
  
Ludwig remembers a cold dark place where neither life nor joy exists. He feels like he's returned to that place, if only in soul. It's crushing him from the inside out. Blood eases the sting for a little while-- he returns to the chapel like a sot to a tavern, like a lover to his mistress, like a murderer to the scene of his crime.  
  
His Spartans worry, but they keep their spirits up by lying to each other. He couldn't be corrupted; he's the reason Yharnam is uncorrupted. He's the Holy Blade, a paragon of virtue.  
  
They've forgotten what Yharnamites say about men who are pure of heart and say their prayers at night.  
  
He gorges himself on blood until his eyes turn red and the invisible hand snatches him away. In the nightmare, freed from the confines of reality, his body warps and cracks. It's mere moments before he's unrecognizable as himself; within hours, you cannot tell he was ever human.  
  
It hurts. It hurts more than he can bear, and any fragment of sanity Ludwig might have clung to vanishes with his human form. He stalks the halls of a Chalice Dungeon, filled with the corpses of those he's killed- hunters, Beasts, innocents, both in the waking world and in this nightmare.  
  
His only comfort is the Moonlight Blade- like a suit of armour he still half-remembers, it's stayed by his side, even in his twisted state. Its glow allures him. He can make out words of human speech in its whispering- not alone, not a monster, death will come, your suffering ending. Even when he can't understand it, its weight and warmth gives him a shred of thought, clears a little of his mind- not enough that he realizes what he's done, but enough that he halfway feels like a person again.  
It anchors him. He can't fully sink into the darkness with the Blade by his side.  
  
When a Good Hunter comes into his nightmare to strike him down- as he struck down beasts long ago- he's finally able to clear his mind of the beast blood, to become his old self. He thinks he sees moonlight spilling through the ceiling, falling onto his prone body. He feels some of the darkness fade; asks after the welfare of his spartans.  
  
His ears ring. The moonlight fills his vision, until all he can see is white.  
  
In the bright light, he sees a massive shape with four legs, carrying something in its mouth. Even though it looks like a beast, he's not afraid. He knows that shape- it's the shape of a friend.  
  
She draws close enough that he can see her, not just her silhouette. It's Sif, the Great Gray Wolf- his companion, his truest friend. She's carrying the Moonlight Blade in her mouth.  
  
Sif leans down and sniffs at him. He finds he can stand up. When he looks down at himself, he realizes he's he's wearing a suit of armour, like those knights in the Chalice Dungeon, like his memories from long ago. It fits him like a second skin, with a blue plume trailing from his helmet. He dimly realises he missed the armour, as much as he missed Sif.  
  
He reaches up and scritches her behind her ear. She leans down, and offers him the Moonlight Blade; he takes it from her, and sheathes it over his back.  
  
<<Are you ready to go, old friend?>> she asks.  
  
"With you? I'd go anywhere."  
  
And the Holy Knight walks into the endless moonlight, his two best friends by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [EDIT, 12/13:] An atheist friend of mine who does not play Souls pointed out to me that it seemed like Ludwig's transformation was triggered by the Moonlight Blade's existentialist-hope-speech. This was *not* my intention at all, so I added a few lines to clarify.
> 
> You know, when I started writing this, I thought *Artorias* was the one you got the Moonlight Blade from? With the exception of Laurence/Laurentius, I've been trying to avoid the *really* obvious parallels you might get in a fic like this. Iosefka is not Seath, for instance, and Maria is not the Darkmoon Knightess. So I was low-grade cringing, because *oh no what have I done*. But it turns out it's all good! The only thing these two have in common is being Corrupted Knights. Which is still a very similar archetype, but meh, it's not the end of the world.
> 
> Also this turned into a personal character study of Ludwig more than a direct compare/contrast, so sorry about that! These are getting longer and longer as time goes on; I'm probably going to have to go flesh out Laurence's chapter to match all the others. 
> 
> The things the Moonlight Blade tells Ludwig to comfort him were vaguely inspired by this choral suite: https://soundcloud.com/kenley-kristofferson/cosmos  
> I kinda feel like a Less Evil version of the Healing Church would use this as a sacred hymn. But then, the Healing Church was kinda doomed to be evil from the get-go, or at least very Mad Science.


	5. darkmoon powderkeg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains the c-slur, as used by a character to refer to themself. Proceed with caution.

The thing Djura remembered was _frailty_.   
  
In his former life- the one that nagged at the back of his mind like a toothache- he had been a weakling, as delicate and fragile as one could be and still be called a man. Some illnesses had slipped on and off him like a silk robe off the shoulders. Others were both painful and permanent- dull, throbbing headaches, pain like a fresh bruise that spread through his joints and back; lungs that burnt it got too hot or too cold, making a shallow breath agony; legs like snakes that moved of their own power...  
  
Most of all, a body that was wrong. Nothing about it had felt like it was right. His irrythmic heart, his choking gasping lungs, his feeble arms that could barely lift a staff, his warped and twisted lower body, the small breasts that poked from his chest and the worse femininity beneath... none of it had worked.   
  
None of it had felt like his. He'd felt like he was stuck in a broken golem, unable to repair it; able only to feel pain. He remembered hating himself for it- loathing everything about his body, his mind, his essence; wishing that he'd been healthy and strong, like his siblings, daydreaming some illusion that would make him look like the powerful warrior he wished he could be.  
  
In this life, of course, he was as hearty as the next man. Able-bodied, able-minded; able enough that, when his city was in danger, he was able to protect it.  
  
(He remembered another city- it wasn't Yharnam, though it bristled with cathedrals and spires. It sat at the throat of the world like a gleaming pearl, and every day, he'd made the sun rise above it.   
  
He was sure of it, though he couldn't tell you why. )  
  
He'd loved that city, then. He loved Yharnam; especially Old Yharnam. And if he loved a place, he had to protect it, even if there wasn't much left to protect.   
  
So he fought beasts-- for the good of the city, for the good of the people.   
  
He started as a lone Hunter- taking up an axe and a torch to protect Jhereg Street when the beasts came to call. Soon enough, he found allies, and even friends, among the Powder Kegs. They may have been heretics, but they were clever heretics, and Djura had always been drawn to the strange and experimental. Before, he had been an illusionist- he'd studied moonlight and soul, combined them in ways none had thought to try before. Now, he studied sela petrae and charcoal and cunning mechanisms, blending them and bending him to his will.   
  
And for a time, he was a true hunter, as true as could be. He built his own weapon- the Stake Driver. It was to a crossbow as a werewolf was to a human, but it fired true. He fought beasts. He wandered the streets of Old Yharnam on patrol each night and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep at dawn.  
  
The problem came, as most problems do, when he acquired a little more insight, and found a way into a dim Dream.   
  
It had been midnight. He'd been in the woods around Hemwick Lane, trailing a werewolf that had run from Old Yharnam well outside the city. He'd died at the hands of something that was-and-was-not a beast; a creature with seven snakes where a head ought to be. He'd expected to never wake again. He'd hoped- a blasphemous hope!- that he'd find himself in the gentle realms of Lady Flora, surrounded by clear skies and warm water.  
  
Instead, he woke to a dream- a fading workshop, a gentle doll, and an old man in a wheelchair.   
  
It'd taken him a moment to realise who he was seeing- First Hunter Gehrman. He'd seen him once or twice, early in his Hunt. He'd been an old man even then, and no Powder Keg had spoken to him face to face. He was a legend, only seen from a distance - on rooftops or in alleys on nights when the red moon rose. And then he'd disappeared, without a trace. It was assumed he'd died, or turned into a beast so monstrous that none could slay it.  
  
But he was here, in this nightmare.   
  
Looking at him, Djura felt about how he'd expected- like a child wearing his father's clothing, playing at being a Hunter. Anger he hadn't expected throbbed beneath his awe.  
  
 _Why did you leave us? When we needed you most--_   
  
Djura shook off the thought.   
  
He'd hoped to gain some wisdom from the First Hunter, but when he'd tried to speak to him, the old man had kept his back to him, staring into the fireplace. He hadn't answered a single question-- just shook his head sadly and clucked his tongue.  
  
"Just go out and kill some beasts," the First Hunter had said. "It's for yer own good."   
  
So he had. Time blurred into a disconnected haze. Reality turned into a nightmare of blood and beasts; the Dream, for a while, was a safe haven of sombre peace.   
  
But in the end, as with all Hunters, he was undone by the blood.   
  
It wasn't blood-drunkenness that undid him, though, and it wasn't a bestial transformation. It was the echoes.  
  
He'd seen them before, littering the streets of Yharnam on the Night of the Hunt. They were a fine, grayish-red powder, mixed with specks of glittering light. The light moved towards Hunters, like flames to a moth. They disappeared by morning, fading in the light of the sun. When he was still an apprentice Keg, Djura's master had told him: never touch blood echoes, if you can avoid it. Wash the dust off your clothes come morning, and don't let it touch your skin. There were some things that were too dangerous to handle, even for explosive-obsessed heretics.  
  
But the doll had told him: "gather the echoes of blood, and I will give you strength." And she was the one beacon of sanity he had left. So he had, and he'd brought them to her. He'd poured the dust into her hands, and she'd laid them upon his head.   
  
The echoes turned to blood under her anointing touch.  
  
Each time, he did feel stronger; each time, though, memories that were-and-were-not his crept into his mind. He'd always had vague recollections- frailty, pain, fear of death, fear of not dying and prolonging his suffering. Disconnected images: a city, a dragon, a giant woman. But bit by bit, those recollections started to clear and pool together like fresh-spilled blood.  
  
He remembered a father (distant), a mother (absent), a brother and a sister (both abandoned). A city of gods turned to a city of the dead.   
  
A face in a dusty mirror. A body. A body the inverse of the creature that had killed him, that had cursed him to this Dream- the head and torso of a twisted, ugly, woman and legs that were a hundred serpents.   
  
Djura had spent an eternity after that staring down at the makeshift Rune Workshop without seeing the rune on its surface. He didn't want to think about anything, but he wanted to fight even less.   
  
He stepped out into the garden, into the misty not-light, tracing the path around the fence. He stopped short. Gehrman's chair sat, blocking the path, by a gate Djura hadn't been able to open. Gehrman was looking at a gravestone- an old-fashioned one, from the days when people had the luxury of marking tombs with more than a flat stone or a wooden cross.  
  
The First Hunter didn't acknowledge Djura's presence. Djura cleared his throat.   
  
"Sir?"   
  
"What is it?"   
  
Gehrman backed away from the tombstone. He tipped his wheelchair back and pivoted in one swift, graceful movement.  
  
Djura took a step back to give him room.  
  
"...If I may ask..." he said. "Has there... has anyone tried to cure the Beast Plague?"   
  
Gehrman laughed, wheezy and dry.   
  
"The Church, the Scholars, the Charnelhouse, the Hunters, your mother and a dog," he said. "...Why are you asking, lad? I thought they trained Hunters these days."   
  
Djura pulled his scarf up higher, glad that Gehrman could not see his expression.   
  
"I don't mean prevent," he said. "I mean cure."  
  
A strange look crossed Gehrman's face.   
  
"No," he said. "As far as I know... no. What point is there?"   
  
"The beasts are people, aren't they?"   
  
"Were," Gehrman said. He sighed. "...They're too far gone. There's nothing that can be done."  
  
"...I'm not sure that's..."   
  
"A Hunter must hunt," Gehrman said. "You make your peace, and then... you put them out of their misery."  
  
Djura folded his arms.   
  
"My, uh, brother," he said. "He was a cripple. His entire life was misery and pain. At the end he could barely breathe. But he didn't want to die. He just wanted to be well. ...Maybe we ought to extend the beasts the same courtesy."  
  
Gehrman looked at Djura out of the corner of his eye.   
  
"Did you use the Doll?" he asked. His voice dropped to a growly whisper.   
  
"What?"   
  
"The little Doll. The one who sits by the stairs." Gehrman's voice was still whispery, conspiratorial. It made Djura's skin crawl, though he wasn't quite sure why. "Did you ... find her to your liking?"   
  
"She's been helpful," Djura said carefully.   
  
"Did you... see anything?" Gehrman leaned forward in his chair. "Visions... dreams?"   
  
Djura pulled his scarf up.   
  
He wasn't about to admit his second set of memories to a near-stranger, even if that stranger was the First Hunter. He'd once tried to tell his mother, and it had been weeks after that before she'd decided he didn't need to be sent to a sanitarium. There was no way he was going to tell anyone else.  
  
"No. Just... peace. Strength."   
  
Gehrman looked down.  
  
"Ah, well. It's for the best," he said.   
  
He stared up at the cloudy sky of the Hunter's Dream for a long moment, not saying anything. Djura begain to wonder if Gehrman was senile.  
  
"The night's almost through," Gehrman said.   
  
"That's good news," Djura said. He pulled up his collar.   
  
"Do you want me to show you mercy?"   
  
Djura frowned.   
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
"You will die, forget, and awake under the morning sun. You will be freed from this terrible dream."   
  
A Hunter must hunt, Gehrman had said. And right now, all Djura knew was that he never wanted to hunt again. It was senseless, nightmarish- and if what he remembered was true, it was tantamount to murder.   
  
"Please," he said. He knelt before Gehrman's chair.   
  
He hadn't expected old Gehrman to stand up, wobbling on his peg leg. He hadn't expected him to pull a scythe from the back of his chair, or for that scythe's handle to stretch to an impossible length.  
  
Djura closed his eyes and clenched his teeth.  
  
"Farewell, my keen hunter," Gehrman said. "Fear the blood."  
  
A stab of pain, a rush of blood to the head, and then... darkness.  
  
The sun rose. He sat up. He was still on the outskirts of the Charnel Lane, but the world had turned to morning.   
  
Djura started back home, moving with purpose. His coat billowed out behind him in the early morning breeze.   
  
He had to get back home to begin his new duty- to try to find a cure for the Plague, to try to heal what had been hurt instead of hurting more. His heart rose to his throat.   
  
He could do it. He knew he could. It would just be a matter of convincing others that they could, too. He was no medical genius, barely a man of science, but other Kegs were. And for all their bravado and heresy, the Powder Kegs were mostly reasonable men. He was certain some of them would come around--   
  
Was that smoke on the air?   
  
Djura ran forward, to the edge of a balcony. He gripped the iron railing, and stared down. Smoke floated up on the wind, hazing his vision.   
  
He blinked, shook his head- trying to deny what he was seeing, to no avail.  
  
Old Yharnam was burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Djura and Gwyndolin are my two favourites in their respective games. What can I say, I project my issues onto beautiful men. So it was only natural that I'd mash them together, regardless of how well they fit. But turns out both their stories have a heavy focus on disability, and being An Differently Able myself, I figured I'd just take that tack and run with it, to the hills and back. 
> 
> Also, yeah, I prefer masc-pronoun!Gwyndolin to fem-pronoun!Gwyndolin, and in later chapters, that may come through more. (Oh yeah, Djura's gonna show up again.)
> 
> If anyone would like me to, I can ramble about the Cult of Flora some, either as a bonus chapter or on my blog.


End file.
